


Wait for Another Day

by woodlands



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Discussion of Earlier Relationships, F/F, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodlands/pseuds/woodlands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison has always seemed approachable, but reserved, always like something’s hidden, and Lydia is beginning to find ways to brush some of the dust off of the window, get fractured glances inside. She wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait for Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> Kelsey demanded I write Allydia for Femslash February and I obeyed.
> 
> (Title from Youngblood Hawke's "Stars")

“Our sons, soldiers. Our daughters, leaders,” says Allison, like a memorized line, like the words don’t mean anything any longer. Lydia watches her pick absently at the cuticles on her nails. It’s getting light out, filtering into the room and dusting off the walls, the grain of the table, turning Allison’s hair from a deep shadow into ebony. It feels deceptively quiet. Peaceful.  _Safe_.

Up until now they’ve been sitting in total darkness in the vet's office. Lydia has felt restless all night, too big for her skin, and she knows her fingers have been tapping a rhythm against her knees for over an hour. Next to her Allison looks composed, but her hand twitches toward the crossbow whenever one of the dogs barks, and she hasn’t relaxed in the chair at all.

Lydia frowns. “Sounds like something straight out of a shitty fantasy novel.”

“Or a cult,” Allison agrees, “Which we basically are.”

“Does that make you Charles Manson?”

Allison laughs, but the humor doesn’t reach her eyes. “It makes me useless. It’s just dad and me, now—and I don’t—“ She breaks off, looks down. “I messed everything up.”

“Allison, that’s—“

“I know,” Allison says, “My grandf— _Gerard_ —Gerard was manipulating me, I guess. I mean Dad said that it wasn’t even Mom’s handwriting, that note. So. 

It’s fucked up, what’s happened to Allison, and Lydia understands. She’s pretty sure she hasn’t heard the whole story—surprise—but Allison’s lost three family members since moving to Beacon Hills, and at the very least Lydia knows what that does to a person. Jackson has felt the loss of his parents since the Whittemores told him about the adoption, a raw and open sore.

“You’re doing a good job of making things right,” she points out. They’re here at quarter to seven in the morning because of it. They’re probably going to kill someone or be killed because of it. “And it’s not like you shot anybody who couldn’t—heal again.”

Allison blanches, and Lydia instantly regrets it. She tilts forward on her chair, leans an elbow against the table. “I’m sorry, that was harsh. 

“But true,” Allison concedes. She looks down. “Has Stiles texted you?”

Lydia checks her phone, shakes her head. “Not yet.”

She drops the phone on the table and stands up, paces. It’s getting sunny in the room, but the light does nothing to dispel the air of anxiety between the two of them. They’ve waited for hours but the threat hasn’t appeared, just escalated, at least in Lydia’s mind, until she is half-convinced that when it appears it will be formless, dark, all-encompassing. It will probably look like Peter Hale, who until recently was a nameless fear in her dreams.

“I talked to Jackson,” she says, to shake herself out of her reverie.

Allison looks up at her, face open and curious. “Yeah?”

“He’s found a pack in L.A.”

“Good. He needs the support,” Allison says, definite. Before the Whittemores moved, Jackson had spent most of his time alone, worse than before, and Lydia could tell that he was beating himself up for the murders. He’d said that he couldn’t remember them, but he hadn’t looked her in the eye.

Lydia’s secretly a little glad he’s gone.

“They’re all older, I guess, so he’s probably cranky about not being able to boss anyone around.” She smirks, leans against a filing cabinet, “He said he thinks he’ll be Alpha when the current one dies." 

Allison snorts, then looks a little remorseful. Lydia smiles at her.

The thing about it is that Lydia knows, intellectually, why Allison’s enigmatic personality is so intriguing to her. She’d thought about it first when Jackson laughingly suggested a threesome, and she’d cocked an eyebrow up at him and he’d shrugged, said, “What? It would piss McCall off.” She’d thought about it again recently, watching the way Allison’s perfect smile hardened into something crueler. Allison has always seemed approachable, but reserved, always like something’s hidden, and Lydia is beginning to find ways to brush some of the dust off of the window, get fractured glances inside. She wants to.

There’s a noise from the front room. Instantly, Allison’s on her feet, arrow nocked, eyes trained on the closed door to the hallway. Lydia doesn’t have a weapon besides the blade on the Swiss army knife she stole from her mother, so she moves to stand slightly behind Allison, heart racing. If they make it through the night, she’s signing up for riflery classes. Or perhaps something more imaginative, like throwing knives or—

Isaac Lahey’s face appears in the window. “You guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” Lydia snaps, as Allison lets out an audible breath of relief and lowers the crossbow. She crosses the room and unlocks the door, letting Isaac, Scott, and Stiles tumble in. “What the hell happened?”

Scott looks a little sheepish, but Stiles just grins. “Turns out they weren’t after your magical blood, Lydia.”

She glares at him, although she’s grateful. Feeling defenseless in a town full of werewolves is one thing, but feeling defenseless in a town occupied with power-hungry witches is entirely another. “Then what the hell  _were_  they after?” The way Stiles is practically buzzing where he’s standing, she’s sure she won’t like it.

Isaac looks over dispassionately from where he’s been flipping through a pamphlet on neutering. “Derek had sex with one of them, and they… liked the taste.”

Scott visibly shudders, makes a noise of disgust. Stiles is still grinning widely, and Lydia has trouble keeping her face straight at the thought of Angst Alpha Hale getting laid and then discovering he’s put the whole pack at risk because of it. Allison is quiet next to her, mouth pinched. She doesn’t look happy. “Are they gone, then?”

“Boyd and Derek killed, like, three of them, and the rest fled, because I guess witches are wimps,” Stiles says.

“They’re gone,” Isaac says, “We cut a deal with the coven leader. Derek knows somebody in, like, Boston or something who ca—“

“New York,” Scott cuts in.

“New York, okay, apparently somebody Derek knows is a bigwig among the, uh, witches there.”

“You’d think,” Stiles muses, “that an antisocial loser like Derek wouldn’t actually have any friends.”

No one misses the way Isaac glares at him, except Stiles, who seems content to laugh at his own joke and is not fooling anybody. Lydia sort of wants to lock Stiles and Derek into a room with a bed, except that would require actually caring about Stiles’ love life, which she doesn’t.

“What about the bodies?” Allison asks, finally un-notching her bow and folding it up.

Scott, perking up, says, “They shrank. Into, like, shrunken heads. It was weird.”

“Yeah, like actually little shrunken head dolls,” Stiles says.

Lydia sighs, feeling exhausted. “Okay, this is ridiculous, you can tell us the rest later. It’s six in the morning and I stayed up all night for basically nothing, so I’m going home. Unlike the rest of you, I actually had plans for my Saturday. Which I can’t do, looking like this.” She gestures to herself. “Who’s volunteering to drive me home?”

Allison makes a noise of assent and picks up Lydia’s bag off the ground. “I will.”

Stiles looks disappointed. Old habits die hard. “You sure? I could—“

“Lydia’s is on the way to mine,” Allison says, brushing him off. It’s not, but none of the boys brook further argument, bundling out of the vet’s office and into the crisp morning air. Isaac inherited his father’s car when he died—when Jackson  _killed_  him—and Lydia watches Scott slip into the passenger seat and wave to Stiles, who waves back.

Then Allison’s hand is circling her wrist and pulling her back into the building. “Lydia,” she says, when the door is closed. That’s it, just her name. And then, slowly, Allison tilts forward. “Can I—“

“Yeah,” Lydia says, because she get it, wants to, “Yeah.”

She gets her hands in Allison’s hair, just as soft as her own, and pulls, pressing their mouths together. Allison makes a tiny noise. Her hands shift to Lydia’s hips, and although she keeps her body a few inches from Lydia’s it’s obvious she’s just tentative, not nervous.

This should be strange, Lydia is sure, because there was no buildup, no flirtation. But it doesn’t matter, really. It feels okay to do this, better than okay, to lick across the seam of Allison’s mouth. Allison sucks on Lydia’s upper lip, humming when Lydia brings a hand down to cup her jaw, stroke her hair a little, twine her fingers back in and tug a little, too.

Their kiss is delicate for only a moment, changing when Lydia opens her mouth to let Allison lick inside. Then it’s slick, and warm, first where their lips are pressed close and then where their bodies meet as Allison crowds Lydia against the wall, breath going a little ragged.

Abruptly they’re not kissing anymore. Allison freezes and pulls away, and it takes Lydia a second to realize that the look of anger on Allison’s face isn’t directed at her, but at Allison’s cell phone, vibrating in her back pocket. Allison steps back, letting go of Lydia and reaching for her phone.

“Shit, it’s my dad.” She hesitates.

“Take it, it’s fine,” Lydia says, her voice a little hoarse. She clears her throat. After another moment, Allison gives Lydia an apologetic glance and heads back outside, her voice muffled through the heavy door, and for a moment, Lydia stands still, back to the wall.

Allison’s on the phone for a long time, and while she’s outside Lydia’s thinking about the differences between this first kiss with Allison and her last with Jackson, trying to decide whether Allison’s feels like  _more_  because her lower lip is still damp with Allison’s lip balm and Jackson’s a million miles away, or because Jackson felt like a commodity, an ingredient in the formula.

Allison’s interactions with Scott were always so cutesy, borderline gross; hand-holding, giggling, secret smiles. Lydia’s long-practiced in the art of putting on a show, knows the occasional necessity for public affection, a well-timed kiss. Allison and Scott hadn’t been like that, too caught up in the thrill of first love to care how their relationship fit in with the rest of the world. Neither one of them seemed worried about the future, how they’d make it work through college. Scott didn’t look at other girls, Allison didn’t look at other guys. 

But that’s over now, and if it isn’t, well. Lydia can work with that, is willing to be whatever Allison needs her to be until she figures herself out.

“You coming?” Allison asks, poking her head back inside, “We need our beauty sleep. 

Lydia tilts her head, smiles, slowly, feeling the weight lift, just a little. “Yeah,” she says, pushing away from the wall, falling in step, “Let’s go.”


End file.
